"Mckinley,.Robin.-.Sunshine" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinley Robin)
ЕThat we are both gone will mean that something truly extraordinary has happened. And it almost certainly has something to do with youЧas it does, does it not?Чand that therefore something important about you was overlooked. And Bo will like that even less than he would have liked the straightforward escape of an ordinary human prisonerЕ
The coffeehouse is in the old downtown area, called Old Town now. It had been a pretty grotty place when CharlieТs first opened, and he catered to grotty people, figuring that everybody has to eat. Since he apparently didnТt do anythingЧincluding, I swear, sleepЧin the beginning but run the coffeehouse, he could do everything himself, including cook from scratch. He didnТt even have a regular waitress the first couple of years; the kitchen, such as it was, was lined out along the fourth wall. This kept his overheads low, and IТve already said heТs a good cook. The cleaner and more lucid of his grotty clientele began to bring their less grotty friends there because of the food. When Mom and I moved in two blocks away the gentrification had only just begunЧbegun enough that Mom wasnТt totally stupid to move inЧbut there were still drunks and hype heads on more corners than not, and Ingleby Street was still all old-books shops, the kind where walking in the door puts you at immediate risk of being crushed to death by a toppling pile of crumbly yellow magazines no one has looked at in fifty years. (This nearly happened to me when I was twelve, and the owner was so relieved I wasnТt going to tell my mom on himЧmy mom even then had a local rep as someone you didnТt mess withЧthat he gave me a great deal on them instead. This motley assortment included an almost unbroken run of Vampire Tales and Other Eerie Matters from the sixties, which among other Other things included the first serial publication of the early, less controversial volumes of Blood Lore. I was already Other-fascinated, but this may have confirmed the disease.)
When I was still in high school the city authorities got really excited because New Arcadia was going to be on the post-Wars map. This was partly because weТd hadЧcomparativelyЧquiet Wars, so most of the city was still standing and most of its occupants were still sane, and partly because our Other Museum by the mere fact that it was still there had become nationally and perhaps globally important. I had never liked it myself; the exhibits for the public were real lowest-common-denominator stuff, and you had to have six PhDs, no dress sense, and a face like a prune to get into the stacks or any of their serious holdings, which included stuff you couldnТt get on the globe-net. You could say my nose was out of joint. I was going to like it even less if it was going to swamp us with the kind of loony-tune academic that specialized in Others, but the city council thought it was going to be totally thor.
One of their bright ideas about raising Old TownТs attractiveness level, since we were inconveniently close to the museum, was to dig up all the paving and put down the cobblestones that the city authorities had dug up seventy years ago to put down paving, and replace the old (and, by the way, brighter) street lamps with phony gas lamps with electric bulbs in them. Then they stuck a raised flower bed in the middle of what had been the road, and made it a pedestrian precinct. The old-books stores left and the antique shops and craft boutiques moved in, and for a while there Charlie and Mom were thinking desolately about trying to relocate the coffeehouse because we didnТt want to learn to make Jackson Pollack squiggles out of raspberry coulis, thank you very much. And if the taxes went up as predicted they would have to sell the house even if they kept the coffeehouse, which they probably wouldnТt do either because they wouldnТt be able to bear putting up the prices enough for the sort of hash and chili and chicken pot pie and succotash pudding and big fat sandwiches on slabs of our own bread menu that we do so wellЧ this was before my bakery was built and so before we were also known for toxic sugar-shock specialsЧto keep us in the black. Our regulars wouldnТt be able to afford it, even if the new upscale crowd wanted to eat retro diner food, or we wanted to serve it to them. Meanwhile the pedestrian precinct seemed to be pretty well shutting down our trucker traffic, and CharlieТs has had truckers from its first day. There used to be a joke that a New Arcadia route trucker wasnТt the real thing till he could get his rig within two blocks of CharlieТs.
But it turned out there were more of the old grotty people still clinging on than anyone realizedЧwell, we realized it, because most of them ate at the coffeehouse (including the better class of derelicts who knew to come to the side door and ask for leftovers), but we thought the Rolex shiny-briefcase thugs would drive them out. Only it was the Rolex shiny-briefcase thugs that eventually left. So the old grotty people are still here, and the coffeehouse is still here, and Mom and Charlie still live around the corner, and most of the antique shops have subsided or are subsiding more or less gently into junk shops again, and some of them are beginning to have piles of old books in the corners, and most of our truckers still come in the back way, although they canТt get within two blocks any more. And when the city in disgust told us to mind our own flower bed because they werenТt going to do it any more, Mrs. Bialosky, who is one of our most stalwart and ubiquitous locals, organized working parties, and nearly every year since then our flower bed wins something in the New Arcadia neighborhood gardening festival, and I like to think I can hear the sound of city authority teeth grinding. Mrs. Bialosky owns a narrow little house on the corner of Ingleby and North where she can keep an eye on almost everything that happens, and the two-seater corner booth just to the right of the front door of CharlieТs also belongs to her in all but real estate contract, and woe betide anyone who sits there without her permission. Mrs. B, by the way, is suspected of being a Were, but there is no consensus on a were-what. Guesses range from parakeet to Gila monster. (Yes, there are were-Gilas, but not usually this far north.)
For the most part our neighborhood is a good thing. Who wants to be dazzled by Rolexes and aluminum briefcases every time you want to have a quiet cup of tea sitting on the wall around the award-winning flower bed? IТll take the odd wandering vagrant any day. But it means that if youТve got vampires moving in from the outside theyТre going to move into our neighborhood before they move into a neighborhood like the one the city authorities had planned for us. Suckers donТt like their food in a bad state of preservation any more than humans do, but our population is predominantly sound and healthy, just not very well-off or important. Furthermore, when the city went into its snit about our bad attitude, they had finished tearing out all the old streetlights but hadnТt finished putting in new ones, and since then they keep claiming they canТt afford to finish the job. Some of our shadowy corners are really very shadowy.
And then one of the dry guys turned up on Lincoln Street, less than three blocks from CharlieТs.
You might think the neighborhood would shut down, everyone staying indoors with the doors locked, iron deadbolts stamped with ward signs and shutters hung with charms, but far from it. CharlieТs was hopping the next evening, and since Charlie himself would almost rather die than turn away a customerЧnot because he always has his eye on his profit margin (Mom would say he never has his eye on his profit margin), but because a hungry and thirsty person must always be treated kindlyЧwe had people leaning against the walls and outside against the front window. Maybe they were crowded a little closer than usual under the awning, where the coffeehouse lights were bright. Our dopey fake gas lamps dotted around the square looked even more pathetic than usual, but youТre pretty safe if thereТs enough of you. Even a serious vampire gang wonТt tackle a big group of humans without an extremely good reason. But it was just as well no fire inspector came out for a stroll that night and checked the numbers against our license. Although the local fire inspector was an old friend of CharlieТs, and would have stopped for a glass of champagne and a chat.
Things got really exciting when the TV van showed up. I was in the bakery, feverishly turning out whatever-took-the-least-time to feed the extra people, but I heard the commotion and Mary put her head in long enough to tell me what was going on. УIТm not here,Ф I said. УIf it comes up.Ф She nodded and disappeared.
But too many other people knew I was there. IТd been interviewedЧor rather theyТd tried to interview meЧright after it happened. SOF is supposed to УcooperateФ with the media, but I know Pat and Jesse are in a more or less continual state of pissed-offness because someone is forever leaking more stuff from their office than they feel anyone but them needs to know, but their boss, or rather their sub-boss, widely known as the goddess of pain, refuses to try to shut it down, so they are stuck. In this case it meant that it had got leaked that SOF was very interested in whatever had happened to me, even if I hadnТt given them any reason to be interested, and even though apparently nothing else had happened since (if IТd developed a rider, like an incubus, or a hitch, from a demon having me on a tether, there are signs, if youТre looking). So now Mr. TV Roving In Your Face Reporter, exploring neighborhood response to a sucker in our midst, wanted to interview me, and at least eight people had told him I was on the premises. Mom, for good or bad, had gone home; she hates packed-out nights and in theory we didnТt need her. She would have given Mr. TV Pain in the Butt Interviewer something to think about. It mightnТt have been such great publicity for CharlieТs but we donТt really need to care what local TV thinks of us.
Charlie is great at blandishing. Few people can resist him when heТs in Full Blandish. But heТs nowhere near as good at getting rid of assholes as Mel is, and it was MelТs night off. Charlie came back after a while and asked if I could bear to come out and be stared at. УYou can say no a few times and come back here; IТll keep Сem out after that. But if youТd be uncooperative in person first it would be easier.Ф
Charlie knew I hated the whole business, which I did, but that wasnТt the real problem. The ever-ready-for-fresh-disasters media guys had walloped my bruised and messed-up face onto TV seven weeks ago, though IТd refused to talk to them. I donТt suppose I could have stopped them even if it had occurred to me to try. IТd thought about it later. I hadnТt wanted to, but I did. Did vampires watch local news on TV? Seven weeks ago they might still have been prying up floorboards for where I might be hiding.
Most of what goes on TV, even on local TV, gets archived on the globenet within a few weeks. And vampires use the globenet all right. Some people believe vampire tech is better than human.
I went out front like Charlie asked. Mr. TV was there with his camera slave, half Quasimodo and half Borg. Mr. TV had amazing teeth, even for a TV presenter. УI donТt have anything to say,Ф I said.
УJust come outside a minute, where we can get a clearer shot,Ф said Mr. Teeth. I wondered if vampires ever got their teeth capped. I went off on a teeny fantasy about specialist fang caps. Probably not.
УYou donТt have anything to get a clearer shot of,Ф I said.
УOh now you want to leave that up to us,Ф said Mr. Teeth, grinning even wider. He put his hand on my arm.
УTake your hand off my arm,Ф I said. I had meant to sound huffy but it came out sounding like a person about to fly into the ozone and loop the loop. Damn.
Mr. Teeth dropped my arm but his eyes (and his incisors) glinted with increased interest. Damn. He made a gesture to the slave, who raised his camera and pointed it at Mr. Teeth. I heard him start in with the TV introduction voice but there was a ringing in my ears. The scab on my breast started itching fiercely. I kept my hands clenched at my sides; if I scratched it it would start to bleed, and if it started to bleed it would leak through, and I didnТt want the Contusion That WouldnТt Go Away to be on the eleven oТclock news too. Seven weeks ago IТd been home from the doctor for the first time and bristling with stitches (for the first time), which had been part of the shock effect of my appearance, since they showed. Back then while I hadnТt exactly been aiming for the Frankenstein look it hadnТt occurred to me I had anything to hide, and I didnТt want the little stubbly ends catching on my clothing.
I had been avoiding thinking about any implications in a sucker victim found three blocks from the coffeehouse, as I had been avoiding noticing there was more local sucker activity at all. If IТd been avoiding it less hard, it might have occurred to me that some kind of news gang would turn up to pry a few ravaged expressions and maybe if they were lucky some sign of an incipient crack-up out of some of the natives. (Possibly not realizing that Old Town always had natives on the brink of a crack-up.) The police hadnТt identified the body yetЧthey called it Уthe victimФЧand nobody at the coffeehouse was missing anyone.
Vampire senses are different from human in a number of ways. The one that is relevant in this case is that landscape which is all one sort of thing isЕmore penetrableЕto the extent of its homogeneityЕ
I had no idea what the homogeneity of TV broadcasting might be from a vampire perspective. I didnТt want to know.
The camera swung to point at me.
I raised a hand against it. УNo,Ф I said.
Mr. Teeth, the mike still glued under his chin, said, УMiss Seddon, we only want a few words with you. You must understand that the assaults on any human by the Others are always of first importance to every other human, and it is the duty of a responsible media that we report anything of that sort as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Miss Seddon, a man died here.Ф
УI know,Ф I said. УFine. Go report it.Ф
Mr. Teeth looked at me a moment. I could see him deciding on the hard-man approach. УMiss Seddon, it is very plain to many of us that whether you wish to discuss your experiences or not, you too have been a victim of an Other attack, and the fact that a mere few weeks later a vampire victim should turn up near your place of employment cannot be considered insignificant.Ф
УTwo months,Ф I said. УNot a few weeks.Ф
УMiss Seddon,Ф he said, Уdo you still deny that you were set on by Others?Ф
УI donТt say anything one way or another,Ф I said. УI donТt remember.Ф
УMiss SeddonЧФ
УSheТs told you she has nothing to say to you,Ф said Charlie. УI think thatТs enough.Ф He was so rarely hostile I almost didnТt recognize him. In the back of my mind, a thought was forming: if he can get rid of a tanked up six-and-a-half-foot construction worker with a few friendly words, which he can, and if he just failed a few minutes ago to get rid of a tanked-up-on-his-own-importance TV asshole because he had been unable to get confrontational about it, what does it mean that heТs suddenly feeling so antagonistic toward Mr. Responsible Media Reporter now? I didnТt like the answer to that question. It meant that he thought Mr. Responsible MediaЧand our suddenly over-watchful Pat and Jesse and their friendsЧwere right about what had happened to me. How could they tell? I hadnТt said anything. And nobody gets away fromЕthey couldnТt think it was vampires.
Mr. Responsible Media was looking rebellious, but this was my country. I was Cinnamon Roll Queen and most of those assembled were my devoted subjects. УHey, leave her alone, man,Ф said Steve, idly rolling up to stand next to the counter stool heТd been sitting on. Steve isnТt major league tall, but he is major league in the looming unspoken threat department. Things had gone kind of quiet in the last few minutes while everyone watched me refuse to be interviewed, and now they went quieter yet. One or two other peopleЧthat is to say, guysЧstood up, just as idly as Steve had. I was suddenly glad it was MelТs night off after all; under the good-old-boy exterior he had a temper on him, and heТd been feeling kind of protective of me lately. Over Mr. Responsible MediaТs shoulder I met JesseТs gaze. He and Pat and John were sitting squashed together at a two-person table. I could see by their stillness that they werenТt standing upЕand I didnТt have to think too hard to figure out that this was because they knew Mr. Responsible Media would recognize them as SOFs and they were giving me a break. Because they knew I needed a break. Oh skegging damn.
УAll right, all right,Ф muttered Mr. Responsible, and he waved at his camera slave, and they left the coffeehouse reluctantly.
УThanks,Ф I said to everyone generally. I patted SteveТs hamlike shoulder on my way back to the bakery (and sent him three cranberry and sprouted wheat muffins via Mary, which were his favorite) and didnТt come out again till closing, although Mary came in a few times to tell me what was going on. She had her break in the bakery too so she could tell me in detail about the interview Mr. Responsible had had with Mrs. Bialosky, who knew how to play an audience. SheТd learned a lot in the years of running our flower bed, and sheТd never been somebody any sane person would want to jerk around. Mary had me laughing by the time she had to go back to work.
Jesse came in right after Mary left. It was like heТd been listening at the door. He stood there looking at me. I went on hurling large spoonfuls of batter into millions of muffin cups. Muffin cups in my bakery were real sorcererТs apprentice material, like the dough for the cinnamon rolls every morning could have stood in for The Blob. УThere isnТt room to hang around back here,Ф I said. There wasnТt, although people often did. It was illegal to have customers back here, but the local food inspectors were all CharlieТs friends, just like our local fire inspector was. WeТd had the head inspectorТs daughterТs fifteenth birthday party here about six months ago: the story was that the coffeehouse was the compromise reached between the party her parents wanted her to have and the party she wanted to have. I made six chocolate chip layer cakes for the event (and chocolate butter alphabet cookies to spell out HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATHY over the frosting, because I donТt do fancy decorating, life is too short), and they were all gone that evening. Some of her friends were still coming back. I was going to need a second apprentice if CharlieТs became a haunt of teenage boys.
УMary was in here for fifteen minutes.Ф
УYou tell time real well,Ф I said. УIs that an important skill in SOF? Mary will fit on the stool. You wonТt.Ф I kept a stool wedged in the one semifree corner that wasnТt next to the ovens, for staff on break, or anyone else I felt like letting into my territory. No SOF was on that list tonight, and I wasnТt in a good mood.
Jesse went and sat on the stool. He did fit. SOF made you keep in shape to keep your job. No lard butts there. The SOFs werenТt that much easier to keep topped up than teenage boys. All that fitness makes you eat. Pat in particular could put it away. When he sat on that stool I had to keep a sharp eye on him. He could make whole loaves of bread disappear in moments.
I opened the oven doors and dragon breath roared into the room. I shoved in muffin tins. I closed the doors and set the timer. I dumped the bowls in the sink and turned on the water. The coffeehouse doesnТt have the most efficient layout in the world, and the dishwasher is in the main kitchen. When I had time, I washed up my own stuff.
I made as much noise as possible.
УRae,Ф said Jesse at last.
УYeah,Ф I said.
УWeТre on the same side.Ф
I didnТt say anything. Are we? Am I sure IТm on the right side any more? It was a very pretty conundrum. People donТt escape from vampires. Since IТm aliveЕIt wasnТt really consorting with the enemy. It was just something that happened. Yeah, and it just happened that I could keep the sun off a vampire.
It wasnТt him I needed to forget. It was me. It was what I had done.
Why would a vampire stick around to feed a human milk and muffinsЧand make sure she didnТt choke on them? Honor among thieves? IТd said that. To him. Why the hell had I wanted to save him? HeТd almost had me for dinner. HeТd thought about it.
Why had my tree said yessssss? What the hell was I?
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